


Flowers In A Bottle

by miamaroo (BFTLandMWandSek)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Past McGenji, Pining, Sad Ending, i tried to do a story about romance and it turning into one about depression, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFTLandMWandSek/pseuds/miamaroo
Summary: Jesse desperately, undeniably, painstakingly loves Hanzo. But he never thought he would get hanahaki disease. Flower-spitting diseases happen to other people, not him. He doesn't even know how Hanzo could ever possibly love someone like him in return.





	Flowers In A Bottle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Flowers Like Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876062) by [NoirSongbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirSongbird/pseuds/NoirSongbird). 



> Thank you to [@silverbearclaws](http://silverbearclaws.tumblr.com/) for asking me daily when I was going to finish this. Otherwise I may have given up on this. Special thanks to [@noirsongbird](http://noirsongbird.tumblr.com/) who originated the hanahaki!McHanzo story and did not mind me writing my own version of it. Her story, [Flowers Like Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876062), is amazing and I highly recommend you read it! 
> 
> Warning: I am not good at writing romance, having not experienced one in many years, but I suffer from depression daily!

The first time Jesse saw hanahaki disease in person, he was ten years younger and petals were slipping through the cracks between Genji’s metallic fingers. It was a cold moment in the infirmary. Jesse had only wanted to see how his friend was doing after his body, still experimental in every regard, needed upgrades. He’d found the cyborg resting in a bed, huffing whenever Jesse made a joke that was almost funny, when coughs suddenly racked his metal torso. By sheer habit, Genji placed a fist against the plate of armor covering his mouth until he started sputtering like an engine. Then, he reached up a hand and unclicked the armor. Jesse remembered the surge of panic that flooded his veins when he first noticed the slim, red petals that fell from Genji’s face and were caught in his palm. Genji pulled back his hand, revealing a single petal stuck at the corner of his artificial lips as he looked down in shock.

It was the first time he ever saw Genji smile. “I did not think I was even human enough for hanahaki.”

The flowers were from the king cup cactus. Each flimsy petal started as a vivid red, like a bold lipstick, before growing lighter and yellower the closer it was to the stem. In Genji’s hand, they looked like a handful of sunsets cupped in a silver bowl. Jesse hadn’t thought much back on his childhood home (only the loss of his left arm years later could make him ruminate over his past choices), but he remembered the cactus his mother tended to on the lawn.

The petals were for him.

Jesse needed time to think, and the short mission Reyes sent him on gave him an excuse. But when he came back, he found Genji’s hanahaki gone. The cyborg refused to talk about it. It would be weeks later and tons of digging for Jesse to get the full story. From what he understood, Genji wasn’t forced, but the decision to have the petals removed was not entirely his own.

Genji had insisted on keeping the deadly blossom in his chest, letting his feelings of unrequited love fester until it affected his lungs. Even if Jesse did not love him and could not cure the disease, he wanted the petals to stay. In his strange metal body, he wanted to feel just a little bit more human, even if it killed him. Angela wasn’t happy about it, but she was his doctor and had to respect his wishes. It was when she was sent on a quick mission that Overwatch _officially_ stepped in. Genji was an investment, one that could not go to waste because of a stupid flower.

Jesse barely had time to even think about the gravity of the situation, the sheer fact that someone loved him with enough intensity that flowers would wilt in their lungs, when everything was done and over with. Even for someone with half an artificial body, the procedure was stupidly easy. And, even for someone who did not feel human half the time, the surgery took away more than just the petals. When Jesse saw Genji again, he was cold and distant. It took nearly a year for them to even remotely reach the same level of friendship they had before. That was the cost of unrequited love.

Life happened fast and Jesse never had time to really think about hanahaki and its meaning.

Now he has to.

It’s approximately three minutes past midnight, but it’s been awhile since Jesse last checked. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in Hana’s bathroom, kneeling before the toilet, staring with horror-stricken eyes at the bowl. Petals float in the water, peaceful in spite of his ragged breathing. They are circular and a soft, soft blue that reminds Jesse of a hazy morning sky. A darker blue streaks each one and Jesse can’t help but to remember the gentle strokes of a watercolor brush and the blue of Hanzo’s tattoo.

His heart hammers inside his chest, loud and demanding. He bows his head, rests his forehead on the cool porcelain, and closes his eyes. Maybe he can pretend it’s not happening, Maybe if he ignores it, it’ll sort itself out in a day or two. But his denial doesn’t run so deep, not when the very thought of Hanzo has consumed his mind for weeks on end.

He loves Hanzo. He desperately, undeniably, painstakingly loves the archer. Jesse’s had crushes before and even has had his heart broken by a misplaced love here and there. But this? This burns inside his chest, smoldering like a fire even when Hanzo is nowhere to be found. He thinks about the man endlessly, letting every thought (sober or drunk) revolve around him. Jesse has never loved anyone with so much ardor before. Yet, he never thought he would ever get hanahaki. Flower-spitting diseases happen to other people, not him.

A part of him that clings to every brush of the shoulder, well-meaning taunt, and alcohol-filled laugh truly believes that Hanzo likes him back. But another sees Hanzo’s stern gaze and compares it to his own disheveled beard. He sees the bottles scattered around his room and the gnarled design of his knuckles and can’t ever see how someone bound to honor and perfection could ever look at him and feel the same way. Jesse sighs a shuddering breath. Even Hanzo’s petals are prettier than any old cactus flower. 

A fist pounds on the door. “You alright, old man?” Hana calls. The music from her videogame blares from the holovid’s speakers. It’s a wonder Jesse can even make out what she’s saying, especially with a door between them. “I just creamed Lúcio at _Starcraft_ and now it’s your turn to get burned!”

 He clears his throat, shuddering at the sensation of a few petals crawling back down his esophagus. “I hear ya.” He’ll have to wait until later to deal with this. Jesse scoops up every petal he’d let drop to the ground and dumps them into the toilet. The blue slivers swirl in the water as they are flushed out of sight, out of mind.

Hana is lying on her stomach when he rejoins the group. Her smile squishes the pink makeup on her cheeks and she nearly rolls over in victory when she scores another win. Lúcio lies next to her, cackling as he hugged a plush pillow under his chin. Like every videogame night, they are on the bed with a bag of chips between them.

Sitting against the bedframe, brows drawn in focus and controller held high, is Hanzo. His hair is still tied high on his crown, but a casual shirt stretches across his chest, too short to touch to edge of his sweat pants. Jesse sees his sharp face, watches him smirk when he lands a hit, and feels his chest burn. Hanzo’s eyes are cool and Jesse wants nothing more than to throw himself into them.

“Must I invite you to sit?” Jesse blinks and realizes a little too late that Hanzo is talking to him. His beard frames his amused look as he makes a show of scooting over. “Take a seat before you make more of a fool of yourself.”

Jesse thinks he can feel the petals rise up his throat again, but he can’t say for sure. He still swallows and gives Hanzo a jaunty grin. “Nothin’ I do is gonna make me look dumber than you always do,” he says, joining Hanzo on the floor.

Hanzo laughs a short note, mostly because he’s recently started wearing a piece of armor Torbjörn made specially to cover his chest without restricting his arm movements. Jesse hasn’t seen that toned, muscular breast of his in a long time. “You are not one to speak.”

This time, the warmth in Jesse’s chest is not from hanahaki. “This town ain’t big enough for more than one tacky person on base and we need a reason to keep Lúcio.”

Lúcio shouts an objection, but it’s the longer, fuller chuckle leaving Hanzo that Jesse hears. A tingling sensation rises in his throat, but he quells it for just a moment, long enough to fully appreciate everything that is Hanzo. He doesn’t want to lose this, he realizes. He can’t risk losing Hanzo.

* * *

Immediately, Jesse decides that Genji is the last person he wants to talk to. Genji may be the only one he knows of that has had hanahaki, but there is something rude about going to the person who suffered from unrequited love for you for advice. At first, he worries about running into the cyborg in the hallways of Gibraltar, but a quick look at the mission logs reveal that he’ll be gone on some meditative retreat with Zenyatta for at least a month, maybe more.

With that in mind, Jesse pulls on his cleanest shirt, trims his beard, and leaves his carton of cigars on his bedside table. He goes willingly to the infirmary.

Angela has his x-rays on the holovid, the white outline of his chest projected into the air for him to see. His lungs are less-than-opaque sacks filled with something that makes them look fuzzy—the flower growing in his lungs, he guesses. Angela studies it for a moment, chapped lips pressing together in concentration, before she sighs. “Are you sure this only started in the past few days?” she asks.

He nods. “I’ve never lied to you before, doc.”

Having been lied to before, she rolls her eyes before growing serious once again. "You definitely have one of the worst cases of hanahaki I’ve seen in my life time,” she says, letting herself fall into her rolling chair.

Jesse looks down at her from his spot on the patient table, too comfortable around his life-long friend to feel exposed in his paper gown. Its bright, minty shade brings out the brown in his skin and makes him feel dirty in its clinical cleanliness. “Alright, so I’m a hopeless romantic,” he says. “What else?”

“A lot.” She pushes her chair, rolling over to the nearest drawer. “First, you have to consider your options. Have you told the person about your feelings yet?”

“No ma’am.”

“Why not?” She pulls out one of the drawers to reveal a lined row of manila folders. She fingers through them one by one until she finds the folder filled with various pamphlets.

 Jesse grumbles, “C’mon, Angie. You know why.”

“This isn’t some school yard crush, Jesse.” She pulls out a yellow pamphlet, skims over its contents, before handing it to him. His brows rise at the title— _Hanahaki Disease and What You Need to Know._ The cover features a smile man and woman, both holding bouquet of red roses in their arms. It’s exceptionally corny. “Your life could quite possibly be on the line.”

“I’ll get this sorted out, dontcha worry.” He starts to open it, metal fingers digging between the folds, but then stops. He looks up and sees the deep grooves that fan around Angela’s blue eyes. Her teeth dig into her lips, and lipstick stains her teeth. He sighs. “Listen—I want to tell him. I really do, but I’m not good at this whole word-feelings stuff. I don’t even know what he would say if I were to just stroll right up to him and say ‘hey, I’m kinda in love with ya and I’m hacking up flowers cause of it.’ I just want to be sure of what I’m doing before doing anything too drastic, ya know?”

“But leaving this for too long is drastic, if not deadly,” she says. “Even at the stage it’s at now, the surgery will only take about an hour. You’ll only need an hour to recover and even the scarring is minimal.” She pauses. “Unless, you really like him that much?”

Jesse flushes and it takes all of his effort to not snarl at the amused smirk on her face. “I mean, I have to for this to even happen.”

“But you love him enough to die?”

He shakes his head. “Course not, Angie. It’s just…” The pamphlet feels heavy in his hands. The smiling mad and women with the flowers mock him with their happy ending. He wants to tell her how lonely the past five years have been for him. After going AWOL and leaving Overwatch behind, he had nothing. He only interacted with the people he was going to bring to justice. To be with someone in the softest of ways, to speak a language of affection and charm—it is new and frightening, but all at once exhilarating. The flowers in his lungs burn like hot coals, but it is a welcoming kind of pain, like the heat of the boiling desert rocks. He’d rather suffer the burns from a merciless sun than sacrifice the little bit of cool, ocean breeze Hanzo brings into his life.

But he’s a poor kid from Santa Fe. He doesn’t know how to say any of that.

Instead, he shrugs. “I just wanna handle this my own way.”

Angela takes a deep breath, and Jesse knows from experience that she’s trying to maintain her professional persona. “I understand.” Her heels click on the tile floor when she stands. “As your doctor, I’ll advise you to read the pamphlet thoroughly and consider your options. I’ll also give you an inhaler to strengthen your lungs, considering they’re already weak from your habit.”

He wants to thank her, but her tone is so clipped that he knows she’s upset. Instead, he nods and reaches for his clothes that he piled behind him.

Angela opens the door and stops. “Jesse…” He watches the tension leave her back. “As your friend, I beg you to reconsider. Times have changed. Hanahaki disease doesn’t have to be a death sentence unless you want it to be. And I do not think I can handle another tragedy.”

Finally, she leaves. The pamphlet she gave him is heavy in his hands and all he wants is a drink.

* * *

After a long afternoon alone in his room, guzzling as much fireball as he could without killing himself, Jesse tosses the pamphlet into one of his many drawers and forgets about it. The inhaler, however, he uses religiously. He sprays the steroids into his mouth once in the morning and once at night, plus whenever extraneous activities leave his breathing sparse. He does it out of sight, careful to make sure that no one on base gets a glimpse of his condition. There is no need to make anyone worry or realize who the object of his affections is. The flowers themselves come as they please, usually when the thought or sight of Hanzo grows too intense, but he doesn’t feel like he’s dying.

It’s an easy cycle to lapse into and, after a few weeks, Jesse nearly forgets that hanahaki disease is something that will kill him.

* * *

Instead of a videogame, Hana pops in a movie. “One of my costars from my last film is in this one,” she explains, rushing to the other side of her small dorm to dim the lights. From his usual place on the bed, Lúcio tosses Hanzo and Jesse some pillows to sit on. A tingling sensation rushes up Jesse’s throat when Hanzo pushes his back forward to arrange the pillows properly. His rough, calloused hand leaves a burning handprint on Jesse’s spine.

The various shades of pink and purple blend together in the newfound darkness. The screen blares blue before the title of the movie appears. “Hey, I know this one,” Lúcio says. “Movie of the year, right?”

“You’ll have to educate me on these sorts of things,” Hanzo adds, leaning into his pillows. He is so close, Jesse feels his blood boiling. “What is it about?”

Lúcio explains. It’s a romantic comedy about a woman who has never fallen in love before meeting her new neighbor, a girl from the wrong side of the tracks who falls in love too easily. Jesse says something about it being cute before the screen cuts to one of the leading women hacking up a mouthful of flowers. He feels his own push up his throat, and it takes all of his will power to swallow it down. His inhaler is heavy in his pocket.

Hanzo’s warmth is a curse. Jesse swears that every inch of his skin is on fire. He wants to tell Hanzo, he realizes. He can’t handle it alone.  He’s tempted to just point at the screen and say he’s just like the woman who falls in love too easily, just to get the whole burden out in the open. But, every time he nearly has the courage to actually do it, Hanzo chuckles at a joke and leans closer into Jesse’s arm. The dragon tattoo, Jesse notices, pulses under Hanzo’s skin like a heartbeat.

Towards the end of the movie, Hanzo falls asleep. He tips over, head falling onto Jesse’s shoulder as a gentle snore leaves him. The piercing cutting through the bridge of his nose gleams from the light of the screen. Jesse looks down at him.

 _I love you._ It’s right there, on his lips.

Hanzo’s lips are full and lovely and all Jesse wants to do is lean in and feel them on his.

“I love you,” says the woman on the television screen. Jesse looks up and sees the actress’s chest exposed for the audience. A magnitude of scars litter her chest in little hash marks—the scars of hanahaki disease removed over and over again.

He wants to cough. He needs to cough.

Jesse presses a hand over his mouth, trying to hold back as much as he can as he hacks. Amazingly, Hanzo does little more than mumble. Tears well around his eyes, and Jesse pulls back his prosthetic hand to reveal a handful of petals. He frowns, trying to think of a place to hide them without anyone seeing.

“Hey old man.”  There is a pop behind him and Jesse turns to see Hana smacking away at a piece of gum. She hovers a closed fist over him. Then, she opens it. More blue petals fall like rain, landing gracefully on his lap, adding to the collection in his hand.

Jesse stiffens. He feels like he’s in a fight. He wants to lash out, punch a few foes and call it a day. He wants to be drunk and forget that this is happening. He looks up at Hana. She chews her gum, unperturbed as Lúcio pointedly pretends he is not here. Her brow, plucked to perfect slimness, quirks as though she’s heard a funny joke. Jesse waits for a speech about how she found the petals in her bathroom, about how she wants him to be mature and put his feelings out there. He waits for her to say she doesn’t want him to die.

Instead, she frowns. “Get your shit together.”

She focuses on the movie once again and that was that.

Jesse forgets how to breathe.

* * *

Jesse wouldn’t say that the whole base knows about his condition—not exactly—but people have noticed that something is up. When he leaves the room to cough, eyes follow him with suspicion. Once, Lena accidentally blinked into the deserted hallway he escaped to and barely missed the sight of him hastily shoving petals into his pocket. Another time, Satya caught him fervidly pumping the inhaler into his lungs and paused, no doubt recording the information for later analysis. Angela maintains her doctor-patient confidentiality while Hana and Lúcio disappear on a mission before word can be spread over coffee gossip.

Ever since Hana’s warning, the inhaler hardly works. Jesse tells Angela that no amount of doses makes his lungs feel better. She can only shake her head. “It’s getting worse. You have to make a decision,” she says. “Get it removed or confess your feelings.” He avoids her after that.

He tries to spend less time with Hanzo. He wastes hours alone in his room, swinging down the vile contents of whiskey and bourbon bottles, wincing when his coughs wreck his body. The years he spent in moldy motels in every Southwestern state fill every space of his brain unoccupied by Hanzo. He remembers the long, hot days he waited out bounty hunters, constantly on guard, never given a rest. The perpetual loneliness overwhelms him until he feels like a clay pot about to break. He collects the petals and pushes them down the neck of an empty beer bottle. Behind the brown glass, the blue doesn’t show, but simply knowing how they are supposed to look fills him with a shame he cannot admit.

A bigger man, one that’s smarter or even just given a better lot in life could handle something as silly as a flower. But he can’t.

One day, he rolls over and digs the pamphlet from its drawer. The smiling couple on the front with their fake, red roses mocks him with their happiness. Finally, he reads through the blurbs of words. A rhetorical voice asks about the origins of hanahaki disease and a more informed one says that no one knows for sure. Is it a psychological phenomenon? A physiological one? Neither? Both? Not even experts in the field know. No one even knows why the surgery removes the feelings. Flowers cannot be literal manifestations of unrequited love since no other kind of emotion shows itself in such a way. Psychologists have suggested that the trauma of the surgery makes one fall out of love while others believe that it only buys the victim enough time to actually move on. All in all, no one knows for sure and the uncertainty rings wrong in Jesse’s head.

Growling, he rips it up and throws it into the dark expanse of his room. Papers fall on empty bottles noiselessly.

Jesse doesn’t know how long he’s been in solitude when Hanzo knocks on his door. When he answers it, he’s less than shaven and reeks of alcohol, but Hanzo—sweet, sweet Hanzo—does little more than scrunch his nose. “You’re on cooking duty tonight,” he says.

Jesse squints. “Yeah? That’s today?”

“I would not be here pestering you if it was otherwise.” Hanzo looks past him, no doubt catching sight of the numerous, empty bottles. Sympathy fills his face. “Have you considered what you will be making?”

“Well…” He scratches his beard. “I don’t rightly know, I guess.”

The way he stretches his mouth could almost be called a smile. “Get changed. The day’s still young.”

Because of Hanzo, Jesse showers and shaves. They take the truck off the base and make the hour’s drive to the town. Hanzo is as talkative as always, stating simple facts about the paved roads and hovering cars just to fill the air. Little by little, Jesse feels himself loosen. Hanzo’s scarf whips in the wind, waving outside the window like a fish tail. Sunlight makes his face glow and his beard frames a smile Jesse’s never seen him wear. His voice is deep and, as he talks about summer in Hanamura, it rises and bends like a bard’s song. Jesse’s chest burns, but in a good way.

He follows Hanzo around the town like a lost child, letting the archer chose whatever vegetables and meats he think they’ll need. When they make it back to the Watchpoint, Hanzo shows Jesse how to make fried rice. They make a big mess of the place.  Jesse can only cook a few dishes that are quick and easy while Hanzo never actually learned how to do anything in the kitchen. They watch online tutorials and laugh when the rice looks a little strange. They eat dinner with the team and, once everyone has had their fill, they do the dishes together. Jesse has his hands deep in the sink water, humming in an otherwise comfortable silence, when Hanzo asks, “Are you feeling better now?”

Jesse raises a brow. “Pardon?”

“You have been nothing less than a recluse for the past few days,” Hanzo replies. His eyes are aimed pointedly at the plate he dries, but a crease cuts into the space between his brows. “We have all been worried. I have been worried.”

He blinks. Oh. When he speaks, he feels breathless. “Sorry, I… I reckon I didn’t notice.”

Hanzo reaches upwards to put the plate into a high cabinet. His shirt rides up his stomach and Jesse can see the sliver of his warm skin. “I have always thought that there are many similarities between you and me,” he says. “You and I are different, but our paths are similar and we are at the same place. If there is anything you wish to discuss—” His eyes meet Jesse’s, and never before have they looked so bright and comforting. “—by my honor, I swear I am here.”

Jesse feels something rise up his throat, something that is not the petals of a decaying flower. _I love you._ He wants to say he. He needs to say it or else he might explode.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I—_

“I appreciate that,” Jesse says. He steps forward without thinking about it, until he’s in Hanzo’s space. Their chests are inches apart, and Hanzo must tip his chin upwards to meet Jesse’s unrelenting gaze. “I appreciate everythin’ you’ve done for me today.”

He holds his breath. Does Hanzo understand what he means? Those three damn words he can’t say out loud? _I love you, I love you, I love you, I—_

 _“_ It is not a burden.” Hanzo reaches past him and takes another plate.

The way the archer returns back to work is hypnotic. Jesse stands still, prosthetic hand gripping the counter so tightly that he can hear the tile crack. What did that mean? Are his words coded the same way his are? Little by little, Jesse forces himself back to the sink, drowning his hands under the water in shame. His cheeks feel like hot flames.

It is only later, long after he’s back in the seclusion of his room, when he notices it. He looks at his bottle of blue petals and realizes he hasn’t coughed all day. He smiles and feels relief flood him.

* * *

He stops coughing. His chest doesn’t necessarily feel better (he’s still more winded than usual), but he hasn’t seen a single blue petal. It’s an improvement, one that leaves Jesse high in the clouds. Does this mean that Hanzo reciprocates his feelings? He wants to believe so, but another part of him asks what he will do now. It’s out there, but not exactly said. That elusive next step haunts him like the memory of an old rhyme. Its hands are around his neck as he watches Hanzo from the other side of the room.

When Angela asks how he’s doing, he doesn’t have an answer for her. Her lips curl in disapproval, but Jesse can’t be bothered to worry. Not being a burden might mean _I love you._

* * *

“You’re getting sloppy. Perhaps you should reconsider your title of sharpshooter.”

Jesse huffs, keeping pace with Hanzo’s long strides as they leave the firing range. “You’re lookin’ a little green there, Hanzo,” he says. Peacekeeper bounces on his hip and he wonders if he can convince Hanzo to show him how to clean Stormbow. A little extra time with the archer will only do him good now. “Positive you ain’t projecting? Could be gettin’ a little bashful, ‘specially since I haven’t seen you flaunting those pectorals in a long while.”

“Preposterous.” Hanzo looks up at him with a smirk and Jesse feels a cough push up his throat. Instinctively, he presses his metal hand on his chest, feeling the familiar burn sear through his lungs. It has to be a cold. There is no way it’s back so soon. He thinks he can see Hanzo begin to worry, so he fakes a cough before dragging out a cigar. He scarcely has it lit between his lips when Hanzo hums.

Jesse frowns as tobacco fills his lungs. The nicotine can only stall hanahaki for so long. He needs his inhaler, but it has been thrown in a drawer somewhere in his room. “What?” he asks. He pushes to keep up a happier persona and feels proud when he can feel his panic subside.

“Nothing,” Hanzo says, looking away. Then, “I merely presumed you had quit.”

“Why would I ever do somethin’ as responsible as that?”

“Do not ask why,” Hanzo says. But if Jesse knows one thing about the archer, it’s that he’s more talkative than anyone gives him credit for. All Jesse has to do is stare down at Hanzo for a moment longer before the man sighs in defeat. “Typically, you reek of your… habit. But recently, you’ve smelled of something far more pleasant.”

Jesse grins until he’s leering like a Cheshire cat. “What? Charm?”

“Flowers, actually.”

The pain in Jesse’s is suddenly more painful than it has ever been. They reach an intersection in Gibraltar’s dark hallways and Hanzo stops not because he’s notice how Jesse’s feet have turned into lead from horror, but because their dorms are in opposite directions. “I suppose I am wrong then,” Hanzo says, eyes turned down his hallway. “Nonetheless, consider quitting so that your weak lung are not a burden to the team.” When he looks at Jesse’s, his thin lips are turn upwards in the smirk he always makes after a joke. “I will see you before dinner?”

Jesse nods, croaks something about not missing it for the world, before Hanzo finally lets him go. He takes a few hesitant steps back, watching the archer’s retreating form, before finally stumbling away. He barely makes it into his room before he bends over and hacks up mouthfuls of flowers. The blue petals scatter like coins from a broken piggy bank. His cigar falls from his lips and lands in the pile, the ember tip singeing the petals until a small wisp of smoke wafted into the air.

He’s still coughing when he stumbles to his dresser. His feet kick empty bottles, and they clang as they hit the floor. He yanks open drawers until he finds his inhaler. It’s small in his hand, swallowed by his palm, as he wrestles to get it close to his mouth. Shaking hands gets the nozzle to his lips right when another cough tears through him. Petals fly out and pile on the ground. He coughs and coughs and coughs until tears well at the corners of his eyes and he is sure his chest will never feel right again.

Jesse groans and drags his sleeve across his mouth.

It’s red.

The blue petals—delicate, meticulous in their pigment—are stained red. Jesse reaches a hand. He doesn’t breathe. The tip of his fingers brush the red and it’s wet, like blood. His fingers reach his face and he can smell the copper. It’s blood. His lungs are bleeding.

His flesh hand holds splatters of his blood and it boils on his skin like an infection. His prosthetic hand holds his inhaler and, without thinking about it, he grits his teeth and crushes the metal like it’s nothing more than cardboard. Medicinal liquid seeps between his fingers, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He’s dying.

* * *

There’s no plan of action when you’re dying.

Jesse knows that he’s not dumb. He knows that he should get it treated. He knows he should at least tell Hanzo how it feels before going under the knife. But he can’t bring himself to move. He can’t stop staring at the blood staining his chin and the petals scattered on the floor. He can’t lift himself up, find Hanzo, and say the words. He drowns his screaming thoughts in whiskey and smokes cigars between coughs of bloody flowers.

Out of nowhere, he hears a familiar voices pass by his door. His chest seizes, and his hand hovers over his gun even after he realizes that they are merely going to their rooms down the hall.

Genji—he’s back.

* * *

His face is sunken. He sees in the mirror the deep hollows of his face, the way his sun-kissed skin hangs white off his cheeks, but he can’t do anything about it now. The red staining a line down his lips and into his beard can easily be wash away, but he leaves it there. Jesse pushes his hat on his head and tilts the brim until it casts a shadow over his eyes. He wraps his serape around his shoulders, finding comfort in the worn fabric. He knows he’s preparing like he’s going into battle, but he needs the strength of his armor in order to even consider leaving the safety of his room.

He goes to Genji in the middle of the night, knowing that not only will the cyborg be in his room, but that no one will see him slick down the hallway. When Genji answers the door, his visor is off and Jesse can see the scarred tissue of his face and the cybernetic pupils adjusting to the change of light. “Jesse,” he says. He looks the cowboy up and down, taking in the dirty clothes and bloodied chin. Most of all, he sees the beer bottle filled with petals in his hand. “What is this? What are you doing up so late?”

“Help me,” Jesse replies.

Genji’s room is meticulously clean and decorated with memorabilia from his travels. Jesse feels out of place, stiff as he sits cross-legged on the floor. The bottle stays on his lap. “You are in a most concerning state, cowboy,” Genji says, taking a seat across from him. He’s as meditative in his posture as he is in his voice. “I am only a student and I’m not sure what help I can offer you—”

“I have hanahaki.”

It’s in the open now and his chest is lighter. Jesse wants to cry from relief. He told someone, not because they discovered it or had to help him, but because he wants to. Yet, the air between him and Genji is cold. The florescent lights cast a shine on Genji’s metal body. Jesse feels so, so tired.

 “Oh.” Genji stares at Jesse. “I see why you’d go to me. Did you talk to Angela?”

“I just want to ask you…” Why was he here? He didn’t need Genji to help him confess his feelings or decide to go to surgery or not. He couldn’t remember what need drove him to put on his spurs and expose himself like this. He swallows, and he marvels that it’s only out of nervousness. “I guess… I just want to apologize.”

Genji shakes his head. “Jesse—”

“No, let a man finish. I’m sorry. We never talked about it and I should’ve made sure you were okay. Cause this? This is horrible, and I’m in a better shape now than you were then. I should’ve helped you. Been a better friend, or at least tried to—”

“Love me?” Genji huffs, offended. His eyes brim with an emotion Jesse almost wants to call pity. “Your apology is appreciated, but it is unnecessary. What happened was the result of poor timing and poor fate. What happened was my problem. You pretending to have feelings for me would not have helped. Where I come from, dying from hanahaki disease would be considered a death without honor and being dishonorable was a pastime of mine back then.” He leans forward. “Why are you really here, Jesse?”

He blinks. Then there are tears well around his eyes and crawling down his cheek. He hiccups. To his relief, Genji politely pretends he’s not crying. He tries to breathe normally, deeply in and out, before trying to speak. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to die,” he croaks. All he can think about is the way the sun combs through Hanzo’s hair and how he smiled while driving the truck into town. He’s bright and sunny, and Jesse’s room is so, so dark. “But I don’t want to lose what I have—this… this happy middle.”

Genji is silent for a long moment. Jesse hiccups and presses his face into his prosthetic hand.

“I’m sure you are aware of the story,” he says at last. Jesse looks up at him, hand over mouth. His legs shake around the beer bottle. “Commander Reyes was the one who talked to me back then. I told him how I felt about you and he said words that gave me the strength to take control, words that I held to even as the anesthesia pulled me under. He told me that it’s not an ultimatum. The good in your life always comes back and it’s always better the second time around. Until then, you have to take care of yourself. Because the world is a shit place and it will try to drag you under whenever it can. I may not subscribe to that philosophy now, but I believe his message will serve you well.” Genji’s eyes bore into him. “Take control, Jesse. You have the means to save yourself. You, however—you have to seize them.”

Jesse looks down the bottle. The petals are wilting. His chest aches. He’s filthy. He’s tired. He should feel empty, but the weight of the dying flower that taken root in his lungs bears down in his heart. “Take control,” he repeats. He mulls over the words, chewing them in his mouth. “Alright. I’ll take control.”

* * *

“Hanzo, can we talk?”

Those beautiful, warm eyes go from Jesse’s disheveled appearance down the line of his armor and to the bear bottle in his prosthetic hand. His brows scrunch with worry, and Jesse can see him biting back the obvious questions. Instead, he nods and rises from his place at the kitchen’s table, breakfast forgotten. Satya and Lena, the only other agents awake so early, stare. “Of course.”

They go outside where the air is still a nocturnal cool but the sun is pale and warming. There is a cliff where they’ve spent summer nights drinking and laughing, and Jesse takes Hanzo there. Seagulls caw and a few slivers of cloud stretch over the sky. Beneath, waves curl back before pushing into the rocky island. They sit in silence for a long moment, their legs dangling over the drop. The breeze batters the bottom of Hanzo’s gi. Jesse takes off his hat and feels his knotted hair dance back from his forehead. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His lungs scream in protest.

Hanzo speaks first. “You look horrible. What is happening?”

Jesse presses his lips. He has to say it now. Take control and say it now. _I love you, I love you, I love you, I—_

“I…” The words die in his throat. Hanzo’s stare is intense as he looks at him as if he’s a problem that has to be solved. Jesse stumbles over his words, feeling his face burn up. He wants to hide. He wants to cough. He wants to spit it out. “Hanzo, I…” He looks to his side and sees where he placed the beer bottle. He grabs it by his neck, grunting as he raises it in the air and smashes the glass on the grass.

Hanzo flinches away. “McCree, what are you—” He sees the petals. Distinctly blue and fragrant, they are wilted but nonetheless beautiful next to the glittering, brown glass shards.

 “I love you!” Jesse doesn’t care that he screams it. He grabs a handful of the petals and glass in his metal hand and thrusts it under Hanzo’s nose. All Hanzo can do is stare as every word Jesse has held back spills out in a mad, fervent fury. “I love you. I can’t rightly say when it started, but it’s here and it’s killing me. You don’t have to love me back, but you have to know. I am desperately, truly, madly in love with you and I would be the happiest man on the planet if you would only love me back.”

 Hanzo mouth opens and closes, unable to find the words. “I, I—”

“I’m not trying to guilt you or anything,” Jesse quickly adds. A pain racks his chest and, suddenly, he’s dropping the piles in his hands in order to bend over and cough. Petals and blood splatter his hands. He groans as a throbbing sears his torso. He hunches into himself. He isn’t sure he can even move without making it worse. He pants. “I just… I just want you to know before I do anything I’d regret.” He turns his head and sees the way Hanzo’s eyes are wide, how he’s pale and frozen in place. Jesse reckons he looks like a downright mess being like this. “Do you love me?”

Hanzo looks at the petals, then Jesse’s face. “I… I want to.” He pulls back his gi, revealing the side of his chest he hasn’t shown in a long time. There, right over the heart and slicing into his tattoo, is a scar. It is long line of raised skin, one that Jesse immediately recognizes.

Hanzo doesn’t bother hiding his tears. He keeps his chest bared for Jesse to see, fighting back a sob as he looked between him and the petals. “I want to love you, but I can’t. I _can’t._ ”

Jesse pales, sitting up as he realizes the story. Long before he found himself vomiting petals into Hana’s toilet, Hanzo had the red flowers of a king cup cactus growing in his lungs. He can see the way Hanzo would fret, wanting to avoid a death without honor. So, without Jesse realizing, he removed petals and the feelings.

He suddenly feels very lonely, sitting there with Hanzo and his petals. He feels the wind pick up the few in his hands and carry them out onto the ocean. “You literally can’t,” he says. The shock is stronger than anything else. He loves Hanzo and Hanzo loved him. Time, however, is not on their side. Their happy middle never overlapped. He remembers the pamphlet and the smiling couple with their red roses. “Do you… do you ever think you could ever love me again?”

Hanzo shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he croaks. He bows his head, his whole body curling in on itself as, at last, a sob breaks through his frame. He trembles, his back shaking like an earthquake. “I don’t know, I…”

Jesse places his hand on him, hushing him. “It’s alright, darlin’. It’s not your fault.” He wraps his arms around him, enveloping the sobbing archer in his warmth. “I’m a big idiot. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” In that moment, even with scars marring intricate tattoos, Jesse has never loved Hanzo more. Yet, the feeling of unrequitedness dissipates. Closure and the strange, uncertain comfort it brings engulfs him. He still feels split asunder, but now his problem is out there with the petals scattered around him.

Later, he’ll make an appointment with Angela and make plans. But for now, he comforts a wilting man he didn’t realize loved him until it was too late. 

**Author's Note:**

> -Please believe me when I say that I tried to write a good romance, but I'm just... not good.. at it...  
> -I really wanted to expand on how hanahaki has affected certain parts of society and culture. I didn't get to squeeze in everything I wanted to include, but I'm happy with the result.  
> -I'm also happy with the ending. I decided early on that a straight forward happy ending was not going to be the resolution this story needs. I feel like this is more about Jesse taking steps to finally take care of himself as compared to it being a strict romance.  
> -If the characterization is weird, it's because I was trying to write a version of Jesse and Hanzo that's different from what I'm going to do in [Rage, Rage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332695).  
> -Hanzo's flower is a blue asagao. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you for reading! Please leave any comments, questions, or critiques in the comments below.[Check out some of my other works](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFTLandMWandSek/pseuds/miamaroo) or [my writing blog on tumblr](http://miamaroo.tumblr.com/)! Thanks!**


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